


Character Study

by Alex80mph



Series: Character Study [1]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-03-29 03:25:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13918371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex80mph/pseuds/Alex80mph
Summary: Timothée, Timmy Tee, Timmy, Sweet Tea, Armie’s summer boy, his friend and nothing more





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm planning this as a series of drubbles. Yes, there will be explicit scenes, it's my bread and butter :D
> 
> There is a translation into Russian now! [by ms_bitteherb](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13935102)

Armie is drunk.  
Timothée is laughing, bare-footed and bare-shouldered, open as a favorite children’s book and Armie is drunk.  
“Come here, man,” says Timothée, Timmy Tee, Timmy, Sweet Tea, Armie’s summer boy, his friend and nothing more, “Seat with me”.  
There are folding chairs on the grass, Timmy is slouching in one, thumbing his phone, caressing the screen, Armie wants to grab his wrist and stop him. Instead he falls into the other chair, makes it moan and widen its legs under Armie’s weight.  
“Fuck, I’m drunk,” he lies.  
Timmy loses his phone, pores over like a snake, almost naked, glistening, sharp-toothed. He touches Armie, his shoulder, neck, chin, then cheek, eyelid, brow.  
“No, you are not,” says Timmy.  
Armie closes the trap, catches the dangerously thin wrist.  
“Take your hands off me, Jesus. Who are you, a fucking doctor?”  
Timmy – on his knees, caught, but not stopped – nods.  
“Yes. In fact, I’m a known specialist. An alcoholicist.”  
“Alco-who? Are you high?”  
“I wish,” sighs Timmy, pouts, puts his shaggy head on Armie’s shoulder. “Scratch my head.”  
“Never in thousand years. You hair's greasy as fuck,” Armie takes him in a chokehold, wrestles Timmy, the chair collapses under them, they romp in the grass, Timmy laughs hysterically until Armie captures him, takes prisoner, presses him into the moist grass.  
“Stop. Moving.”  
“Will you scratch my head?”  
He is stupidly fearless, this thin boy, still pale even after two months under the Italian summer sun. Stupidly oblivious.  
“Yes.”  
And just like that Timmy relaxes, lets Armie manhandle him, lays his head on Armie’s thighs. Sighs.  
“What are you waiting for then?” he mumbles.  
Armie dips his fingers, tugs the stubborn strands, presses down on the scalp, kneads, pets, caresses. Feels every-fucking-thing.  
“I’m drunk,” he says, looking up, in the sky.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is Oliver afraid of?” asks Luca.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming that Armie in this story didn't read "Call Me By Your Name" intentionally. Also I could be wrong with some dates, but who cares, not that it happened in real life :-D

“What is Oliver afraid of?” asks Luca.  
Timothée is nowhere in sight.  
Luca is energetic, attentive, intrusive. When he talks, he touches – Armie’s hand, shoulder, knee. There is nothing erotic in his touches; it is just his body language. Armie even likes this kind of attention; he’s an actor after all. Play-dough for his director.  
He could have said “a whore”, but this is aggressively not the case.  
“A lot of things,” muses Armie. They are having a quick lunch near the pool. Small sandwiches with goat cheese, rucola (it has a proper name in English, but Armie can’t remember it), smoked fish and salami. Armie’s doing everything he can not to eat all of them.  
“You’ll drown in this pond of a pool, fatman,” says Timothée in his head.  
Timothée who’s nowhere in sight.  
“Yes, yes,” says Luca impatiently. “Like what exactly?”  
Armie kneads a small cup of espresso in his hands.  
“He is afraid of being outed, of course, but that’s not what you want to hear from me.”  
“Ahh, I knew you were smart, Armie,” Luca smiles. “Go on.”  
“He doesn’t want Elio to suffer.” Armis puts the cup in the grass, lights a cigarette. The first mouthful of smoke is almost sweet after the bitter drink. “He wants Elio to be the happiest person in the world.”  
The rain is threatening the shooting again, taking away the light time, giving them the time to be themselves.  
“No,” suddenly roars Luca. “Don’t give me this general bullshit, Armie. I’m not your GQ reporter.” He pronounces “GQ” in Italian, “Gee Qu”, Armie would’ve felt amused if he wasn’t so irritated.  
“Where’s Timmy,” he asks instead of answering.  
The wind is getting stronger, playing with paper wrappers on the table, sloshing the water in the pool, twisting Luca’s hair into a crown of horns.  
“I’ve chosen you. I chose you to be Oliver six years ago. Not for your looks, Mister Hollywood, no,” Luca takes the glasses from his shirt pocket, puts them on. His hand is shaking, he is furious. “You have the gift, do you hear me? You can see through your character, you can feel him inside out, even if he is hiding. From Elio, from himself, from tutti. Look into him, Armand, fucking look through him and show him to me.”  
Armie can’t breathe. The cigarette has died in his fingers; the coffee got cold a century ago. The whole crew is looking at him. The whole crew except Timmy.  
“He is afraid of opening himself. Especially to Elio. He thinks he is superficial and vain next to Elio. He believes that if Elio sees Oliver’s true self, he’ll laugh and walk away.”  
Armie’s voice trembles. He hates Luca, he needs a drink.  
“Ok,” nods Luca. “That’s it. That. Is. It.” He jabs every word into Armie’s chest with his forefinger. “Good boy.”  
“Fuck off,” barks Armie. “Seriously.”  
Luca laughs, the bastard.  
“Oh, look, who’s here! Timmy! Where have you been, my naughty child?”


	3. Elio kisses Oliver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But Armie has never wanted to fuck a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one gets some PG-13 rating at last.

Elio kisses Oliver.  
Timothee uses his body as a set of tools. He is hands down the best actor Armie has ever worked with, a real shifter, leaves himself out of camera’s eye, molds an absolutely new physical manifestation of the character with the clay of his theater-born acting skills and profound mind work. His natural awkwardness stays behind the scenes, even for Elio who should be as inexperienced and clumsy with another man’s body as Timothee is. In theory.  
“I’ve never,” he said, Armie’s first evening in Crema, a little bit drunk and really high on carbs from carbonara. “I’ve never fucked a man.”  
Armie noticed the active verb, didn’t say anything about the matter.  
“Me neither,” he said instead, “But I can't say that nobody has tried to fuck me.”  
Timothee laughed with his open, boyish laugh, booming and inelegant.  
The funniest thing is that Armie wasn’t lying.  
Liz is nonchalantly easy about casual sex.  
“I don’t care if you want to fuck her. If you want to make love to her though, it’s a whole different story. If you want to make love to her, then fuck off and die, you cheater.”  
They don’t call it an open marriage, no. They simply trust each other.  
This is not a one-sided story either. Liz has had her share of lovers, discreet and anonymous, Armie never hears any names or tries to deduct the dates, but he can always guess when Liz has had somebody or somebody – some body has had Liz. Afterwards she is both more active and more distant in bed. Reminiscing, lingering, basking in then and now, as if she was fucking two men simultaneously, Armie and her latest conquest.  
As for Armie, he keeps his extra-marital activities out of their marital bed. He doesn’t need them to fuel his love towards Elizabeth. Armie is a simple man. A fuck is a fuck, something brutal and short. Well. Relatively short, he’s got his standards.  
But Armie has never wanted to fuck a man.  
He can admire the form aesthetically, he is not blind, but he has never felt. A pull. A physical desire to take a dick in his mouth, to fuck a man in the ass. To be fucked by a man.  
The funniest thing is – apparently you don’t need to feel a physical desire to want a man.  
Timothee is a bright kid with deep thoughts and unusually sharp angles of ideas. He is shy, but Armie doesn’t relent, asks and prods and in no time Timmy opens up, starts to talk about all the things he finds interesting. Music, books, theater, theater and theater some more. He is passionate when he talks, moves with his whole body, dissects the topic both with his words and hands, drives the point home unexpectedly strongly and then shies away, covering his mouth with his adored by the camera fingers. As if he was embarrassed by his own fervor.  
The last time Armie had such kind of conversation – sincere and full of meanings – was six years prior when Luca invited him to dine and talk about this daring project – a movie about summer love of two men.  
And now Timothee is here, with Armie, bright and fresh, unique and so unconventionally beautiful, the camera orgasms over his face in every close-up shot. He’s gonna conquer the world, Armie knows it. Luca knows it too, the scheming bastard, Armie sees it in his smile, the smile of a chess player who cornered you into making mistake after mistake.  
Luca thinks of himself as Timothee’s demiurge, a creator of a new star. But he is wrong, it’s Timmy, all Timmy, his brilliance and wholeness, raw nerve, his heart on a plate for the greedy audience to devour.  
Armie wants to own him.  
This unexpected thought comes to Armie just in time. They are waiting for the fucking rain to stop pouring over Crema. They were supposed to shoot the first scene in the central square of the city, but hot Italian summer gave them the middle finger, Luca cursed, Timmy laughed and they squeezed into one square foot of the post office, while the film crew was running amok trying to cover everything that could be covered.  
There is not much space between the newspaper stalls, bookshelves, stands with calendars – for years 1983 and 2016, Armie takes half of the room, leaves Timmy to accommodate his limbs as he wishes.  
“I’m cold,” says Timmy.  
“You live literally upstairs,” retorts Armie. “Go and dress yourself as a responsible adult.”  
“Yeah, well. In order to go up I’ll have to go out.”  
“Well. Yeah.”  
“Yeah.”  
Luca is in the doorway, shouting through the rain, probably trying to coordinate the coordinated chaos of the interrupted filming or maybe just scolding the weather.  
“Let me use you then.”  
Armie is never speechless, no, he is just taking a breath, gathering his thoughts, to tell Timmy off, the kid has a fucking nerve, he’s –  
“Suit yourself,” says Armie in the end.  
Timmy smiles and like this he is in Armie’s personal space – he is in Armie’s personal space all the time, cuddling, head-butting, demanding attention, sitting in his lap, standing on his feet, casually chewing Armie’s ear or his fingers, because the kid has an oral fixation like nobody’s business, but something is different this time for Armie.  
“Oh, God, you are a fire dragon for sure,” moans Timmy and puts both of his freezing hands into Armie’s armpit.  
A grave mistake, a grave one.  
He is shivering, thin and hunching – there's still a bit of Elio in his posture – clinging to Armie, consciously free with his body, a lizard looking for a warm stone.  
Armie hugs him with his free arm, covering him with his body, being all fire-dragony, big and hot.  
Well. He’s being realistic here.  
“Hmm,” hums Timmy, “More.”  
“More?” hisses Armie. Luca is right here, almost touching them, there is no space whatsoever. There was no space in Armie’s heart when he arrived in Italy, but Timothee is already inside, wiggling between Armie’s cardiac chambers. “I’ll give you more.”  
Timmy’s lips are cold and soft, he opens up immediately, wider and wider, trying to free his hands, but Armie will have none of it, he holds the grip, catches Timmy’s head in his palm, opens him some more, bites him just a little bit, licks his lower lip, showing Timmy all his tears and weak places, surrendering, throwing in the towel, giving all he has – and he has everything right now, together with Luca’s sly attention.  
Timmy breaks, throws his head back, presses into Armie’s palm.  
“Oh,” he says, amazed, “Are you allowed to?”  
“Allowed?” Armie can’t believe this kid. “Who do you think I am? Some boytoy?”  
“Well, no, you are too big to be a boy, but about the toy, probably, yes, I think –”  
Armie interrupts him.  
Armie kisses Timothee.


End file.
